Blood Diary
by Rachel Red Ridinghood
Summary: Lady Macbeth writes in her private journal of her journey to becoming Queen of Scotland, but is the life of royalty all that she thought it would? It begins after the murder of Duncan. I do not own this play or any characters mentioned in this story. Please Review!
1. Death Lingers

My dearest journal,

My dear, it has been quite the night, I say.

Macbeth didst kill the king.

Cold now the blood is on these white, cursed hands.

I did, with care, twice check the daggers there,

That they were well in place for all to see.

For they can't know Macbeth's hands bear his blood.

What of our King Duncan? He's now heav'n bound.

For sure, my lord, Macbeth, did see to that.

He did approach with hands stained red.

But still in hand the dagger lay.

So I did go to place the deadly tool.

The bodies lay spread wide before my feet,

Their faces shadowed, eyes glazed yellow.

What came of me to cause this sight?

A poison in my heart poured to their cups.

Death dost linger all throughout the castle.

The folly of Macbeth could be the end.

I fear for him, I fear for me,

Though royalty we soon shall be.

Macbeth be king, and I his queen.

But that has not yet been acquired.

The prize is close, the battle won, but still

Is yet alive king Duncan's son.

Malcolm shall soon fall.

But if we both are caught, what shall come of it?

For he, Macbeth, has just gained trust,

There is too much at stake to be for not.

There are shouts outside the chamber.

The days to come shall be as swift

As Macbeth to gain the crown.

The flame goes out, and black darkness remains.

A protecting shadow from my blames.

I must go, false pain to show.

For they can't know Macbeth's done deed.

The way I go is dark as night, the end

Bright as the sun. But should I stumble,

My soul be lost to all, even Macbeth.

Until the body has been rid, farewell.

-Lady Caitriona Macbeth


	2. No One Else Did See

My dearest journal,

The Coronation of my lord is done.

The crown is ours, and peace shall reign our hearts.

But still, Macbeth is restless now, this night.

He has not told me of his new intentions.

He spoke of me to act in unnowing bliss,

But I know too much for such to be.

We all sat down to dinner in celebration,

But twas, Macbeth was not to be content.

The Thanes all wondered why Banquo was absent.

My lord didst come to eat, but did not sit.

A vision in his chair, he screamed and yelled.

None else did see the thing that vexed him so.

He spoke to me that it was Banquo's ghost.

A curse upon our home!

The missing dinner guest was now a spirit!

How did this come to be?

My lord didst send foul men to hunt and kill

His own best friend, in fear of losing Scotland.

And what is Scotland?

A land of filth, old ways, sorrow, and death.

Just as it was for years before.

Since he, Macbeth, does want to keep his crown,

He must be wise to change the land we live.

For we now stand on edges of swords,

The blade so close, the cold dost chill warm blood.

A step turned poor shall be a loss in all.

My hands shake at the thought of losing this.

Duncan was not poor in his ways of rule,

But my Macbeth will soon be greater still.

But he, my lord, is not well at the beginning.

How shall this end?

The men at supper were concerned tonight.

"The King is mad!" they are certain to say.

They are more right then they shall ever know.

- Lady Caitriona Macbeth


	3. A Curse On Me

My dearest journal,

Night is now the enemy of mind.

While sleeping in my chamber dreams appear.

I wake in sweat, my body shiv'ring cold.

The echoes of my cries still ringing there

Througout the castle, nurses running twoard

My bed to calm my everlasting fears.

If should my lord be found to have the blood

Upon his hand, death will come for us too!

For mine own hands are yet not pure from blood,

Though I am woman, clean from ways of man.

I see upon my hands faint stains of red.

For sure, the blood of Duncan, whom I killed.

The nurses frequently say that there is not,

But yet, mine eyes do see it still.

Each day these spots do come forth brighter,

And they shall, surely, give away my heart!

There is no hope, but yet to rid the mark.

I scrub my hands, but it is all for not,

The cursed crimson blood persists to show.

I rest my head each night to see that face.

The face of Duncan, whom my lord did kill.

I find no words that can describe my fear,

So I take that which boast of might o'er steel.

The quil is dark from many nights of ink.

The paper thrice scribbled over it,

With words o'erlapping indistinguishibly.

Tis good. The words writ aren't for maids to see.

Macbeth is seldom seen by me, his wife.

All day he sits to boast of the predictions

That he did hear from witches in the wood.

How dare he talk once more to those that led

Me and my lord to this; a sleepless bed.

A curse on them, a curse on me,

Though I'm quite sure a curse there be

Already on this restless mind of mine.

-Lady Caitriona Macbeth


	4. I Know Not

My dearest journal,

I do not know how to begin this note,

But this shall be the last I write in life.

Hands shake. Tears fall. Enough! I cannot bear

To have to live in this for one more day.

My lord is good as dead to our Scotland.

The people do anticipate his fall.

Though he be king, their hearts remain unfaithful.

Macbeth, my lord, is brash in what he speaks.

"You cannot die by woman born," he boasts.

Yet he, though man, was child born of woman.

Can he die from the end of his own flesh?

"Beware Macduff," the sisters said to him.

Macduff is yet alive, yet woman born.

"You shall not fall till Burnam does attack."

A wood yet comes upon the hill.

The end, I fear, is near for us, indeed.

Once in my heart I became man to kill.

Yet now I find that man's life is my end.

I was not meant for blood to stain my flesh.

Warm blood holds life, so it should be protected.

My own runs cold, my life stops in my veins.

Is life to live which is not life, but death?

My limbs float as a breeze, without control.

My feet take me along without my knowing.

I am a living ghost without a spirit.

If they do come to kill me I shan't die.

A ghost is but a vision, as am I.

This living death dost tear my soul apart.

The gift of sight has all but left me be.

This entry, that I write, is yet so dark,

I cannot see the writing of my hand.

But what's to see but scribbles on a paper?

It means nothing, no one will read or care.

And yet I still persist to write, and why?

I know not.

Perhaps someday someone will hear our tale.

Perhaps they shall hate us for all our deeds.

Hark ye, o reader, that thou understands.

No man is pure as gold, nor fair as snow.

I challenge thee to be as such, and see

How thou dost fair, to live a perfect life.

I shall say now that thou shalt fail, so don't.

But is it folly to try? I do not know.

Life is but short, and hard to find the way.

They say that it is good that makes one glad.

But my attempt on joy has killed my hope.

Perhaps good first, then joy to come in time.

It is too late for me to find such days.

The throne is lost, all good as dead and cold.

What is left of my soul dost wish to flee.

I shall proceed to grant the wish it asks

For I have nothing left. Farewell Scotland.

Your queen is leaving you.

Lady Caitriona Macbeth


End file.
